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Makin’ it Rain Plastic

Little did I know at the time, my answer to this question would adversely change the year that lay ahead of me.

“Sure.”

I filled out the little application and low and behold, I was now on the credit grid. Leading up to college, my mother would often warn me about the perils of credit cards and charge cards. I heeded her advice, until I realized everyone around campus was having a lot of fun thanks to their credit line. Cute clothing, good food – they were living the good life! I wanted a piece of that pie. Minimum payments were reasonably low – I could figure out a way to make a monthly payment, right?

I loved that shiny little JC Penney card; following classes, I would head up to Our Lady Queen of Shopping, buy adorable outfits, and show them off to fellow Believer Emily. It was a ritual we relished.

Alas, my JC Penney card felt lonely in my wallet – I mean, it’s not like there was any cash in there to keep it company. So, I did what any logical person would do – I signed up for another credit card. Besides, it’s not like you can buy food at JC Penney. A girl’s gotta eat! The good times kept coming, so I kept the credit flowin’.

It occurred to me as I watched my savings disappear that this was not a wise path to be on. After a particularly intense bender where I bought a 24-piece knife set – for my dorm room – I realized I needed help. I took the bus to Emily’s apartment, clutching the knife set in my arms as I knocked on her door. She opened her door, took a look at the shopping bags at my feet and shook her head. She understood these things. I walked inside. She may have wrapped a blanket around me.

“I need to do it, Emily. I need to cut the card.”

We walked over to her kitchen and I took out the shears that were included in my knife set. It was like a Greek Tragedy – I was killing my card with the very thing it gave me. Emily stared at me as I held the scissors over the card. “Hold on,” Emily made us pause. “I feel like this is a moment for you…Okay.”

I cut a diagonal line through the plastic, and we both gasped. A relic to our place of worship and I just destroyed it. It needed to be done.

Unfortunately, credit cards have a way of haunting you long past their destruction. My minimum payments depleted my savings and I began to miss payments on the JC Penney card. I continued to pay my regular credit card bill, knowing that I couldn’t afford to lose that line of credit. All semester long, I tried to find a job, but thanks to a spread out class schedule and a lack of reliable transportation, no one wanted to hire me. I turned to the lowest job a college student could have and arguably the worst one for someone with social anxiety: telemarketing. Oh, and not just any telemarketing – alumni fundraising for the college.

I sat on the phone reading a script to Fine Arts graduates, espousing the importance of donating $1000 to the College of Broke People Fine Arts. Everyone I called was poor and bitter, yet I had to go down the script and ask them for $500, then $250, then $250 with a mention of a matching gift by their employer, then $125, then $125 and what about our payment plan? Then $100. $100, to improve the value of your degree? You don’t need to laugh in my ear, sir. And I don’t appreciate being called a – hello? When we initially called, we had to lie and say the university wanted to receive feedback from alumni on how it could improve, then we’d go in for the kill and ask for the donations. It sucked so hard. I became so nervous making calls, my voice cracked and my hands shook. At one point, I spent 20 minutes talking to a nice man in Seattle and never asked for a dime because he sounded so happy just to talk to someone without being asked to give something.

While working at the telemarketing gig, my finances got worse. JC Penney sent me to a collection agency, and my credit card company got wind of it. I called in just to find out my PIN, and they cancelled my card on the spot. I literally started sobbing and my sort-of boyfriend at the time tried talking to them on my behalf to get them to reconsider. Obviously, they did not, and just like that I had no money. All but $20 a month of my money from the telemarketing place went to paying down my cards and getting the collection agency off my back. Since UofA didn’t do meal plans, that $20 was used for my food budget for the month. Tired of Top Ramen, I stocked up on bulk spaghetti and a jar of Ragu. I literally ate about 200 calories a day to ensure I had something every day until the next paycheck came in. I actually felt like this system worked for me.

The telemarketing place had a snafu in their check-cutting one week, and told us on payday we had to wait an extra two days for our checks. I literally ran out of food the night before and I panicked. I was somewhat on the outs with that sort-of boyfriend and didn’t feel comfortable asking him to buy me a sandwich. The idea of semi-prostituting myself for food felt kind of wrong. Everyone else I knew had money problems, and I couldn’t dream of asking for their help.

I woke up the next morning starving. I did the unthinkable – I went down to the community refrigerator, and decided I was going to steal someone else’s food. Just as I began to reach for a freezer-burned Van de Kamp, someone walked into the kitchen, and I tried to play off my crime by doing the worst acting job ever. “Oh, someone…um…stole my food. Damn it!”

Suspicious glare.

“See ya!” I ran off, never to return to the dorm kitchen ever again.

I walked down Fraternity Row to head to the Music building, wondering how I was going find food. Before me, a familiar sight took on new meaning to me – the Holsum Bread Truck was delivering bread to one of the frat houses. I saw it every day, with its plentiful loaves of bread, unguarded and a few mere steps away from my thieving paws. My eyes rested on one particular loaf of bread. I’d have to hop on the truck to reach it, but it wasn’t too far in… oh bread, I could make several meals of you…

I looked around. There were a few people walking further down the street. Would they notice? Would they do anything? How long is the bread guy away from this vehicle? Why did I never make note of that before, damn it? What would my classmates think if I carried around a loaf of bread all day? Because I am apt to spend more time ruminating than actually doing, I pictured getting caught by the bread guy. I imagined the campus police cuffing me as I protested, “I was only trying to steal a loaf of bread! I’m trying to pay off my JC Penney card! My company didn’t pay me when they were supposed to…Noooooo!” Then I’d get reported in the campus Police Blotter, and I’d be forever known as Jean Valjean Girl or some bullshit. As if my social anxiety didn’t make me weird enough to people, Bread Thief just seemed that much weirder.

I looked again at that bread. My stomach growled. The loaves looked so fluffy and soft; I wanted to dive into the lot of them and roll around, loaves squishing underneath me as I double fisted hot dog buns. Ahh, the life. But? Jean Valjean Girl. I just couldn’t do it. I continued on to class, watching people snack on candy bars and eegee’s, taking every bite for granted. This must be how my labrador retriever felt when we made him “stay” until he drooled. Sorry, Dunder; that was a shitty thing to do.

I returned to my dorm room, knowing I had one final option to hold me over. I opened my little fridge and looked at the only item holding residence: a half-empty bottle of blue cheese dressing. Well, there are chunks in it; that’s kind of like food…

I held the bottle up to my lips, toasting to no one: I am never fucking owning a credit card ever again…